


Tea Time

by werelupewoods



Category: Neopets
Genre: Conversation, Gen, M/M, Romance, Unrequited Love, lots of yearning idk, or eventual romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 16:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11536056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werelupewoods/pseuds/werelupewoods
Summary: "“Honestly, Mister Stoneark,” Ambroise begins, somewhat loudly, making sure that Shimon is paying attention — which he definitely is, considering he raises his nose to look up at Ambroise at the sound of the Krawk’s suddenly doubled volume — “I zhink Sir Oliver vould appreciate having someone to share a cup of tea wizh every now and again, hmm?”And Shimon’s smile is suddenly gone, replaced by something akin to embarrassment."Just a little discussion between two of my OCs, all about love and other such nonsense.





	Tea Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jammy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jammy/gifts).



> Hey hey check it out I finally wrote something with these two and it's SAD (kinda) pshh.
> 
> Well, anyway, Oliver belongs to Jammy, annnd yeah, that's all ;v;

“I’ve told you already, Bee, I am _not_ going to drink your fucking _leaf water_.”

Ambroise just shrugs and smiles into his tea.

It’s quickly nearing three in the morning, but neither of the two friends who sit across the small coffee table from each other are the least bit tired. That’s no real news on Ambroise’s part, though, given that his vampirism makes him a naturally nocturnal creature, but it’s honestly a bit curious that Shimon — who is just your average Gelert, and has only just this afternoon returned from a long week of “hunter business” — hasn’t even let slip a yawn. But nobody’s really complaining about the lack of sleepiness. The two have been happily chatting in Ambroise’s room in the back of the Golden Gallion Inn for hours now, sharing stories of what’s been happening in their lives since Shimon had last left. Needless to say, Shimon’s grand tales of beasts and slaughter are always a bit more thrilling — if not a bit over-the-top — compared to Ambroise’s local gossip, but that’s part of what makes the hunter so wonderful, Ambroise supposes. There’s a _lot_ of things that make him wonderful, actually. But... well, that’s not really what’s on his mind in this moment.

Not exactly, at least.

Ambroise gently sets his cup down on the saucer set before him, tapping the tips of his claws against the table’s surface — nervously, almost. But just almost. “I am just _saying_ , Mister Stoneark,” the Darigan Krawk says, tilting his head and lowering his nose to give his friend a knowingly snarky look, “you really _should_ try getting into zhe habits of zhe more refined.”

Shimon snickers into his brandy, the thick glass he holds hiding his crooked grin. “Are you insinuating that I am some sort of _slob?_ ” he asks, the lilt of his voice nearly operatic in its dramaticism.

Ambroise hums sarcastically. “I had somezhing in mind more along zhe lines of ‘a drunkard,’ but...”

Shimon gives the Krawk's fingertips a quick — but gentle — zap of dark magic, then they both snicker lightly again.

Honestly, Shimon would probably be offended by the silly snipe if it were anyone _other_ than Ambroise at the dealing end of it. But, no, no, the two of them have been the best of friends for countless years now, close enough that the rest of the employees at Ambroise’s inn, as well as nearly all of its regular guests, have taken to referring to the two as a cliché “old married couple.” It makes sense, they both suppose, given how much they bicker and tease with smiles still on their faces, or drop casual petnames and insults as if the words meant nothing. Still, neither of them have ever seen the comments quipped by others as anything more than just jokes. Or, at least, Shimon never has. Ambroise? Well...

Strangely enough, though, the cream coloured Gelert doesn’t have any clever comeback to make alongside his little physical retort to Ambroise’s insult — which is odd, to say the least, considering that it’s nearly impossible to get that man to shut the hell up. He’s still got the same crooked grin on his face that he almost always has, his thick chestnut hair falling in waves over his freckled cheeks, completely concealing his eyes, but still, he seems more quiet than usual. Come to think of it, though, this sort of uncharacteristic silence hasn’t altogether been an uncommon occurrence recently. It would probably be concerning if Ambroise didn’t know him too well for that. But he knows what the silence truly means. Or, at least, he _thinks_ he does. It's a different sort of silence, after all. Just the slightest bit. But still...

When Shimon only continues staring into his half-full drink, absentmindedly tapping one of his clawed fingertips against the glass, Ambroise finally decides to be bold and bring up what he’s sure the both of them have been thinking about... though he still does it in the most sarcastic way possible, just in case. “Honestly, Mister Stoneark,” Ambroise begins, somewhat loudly, making sure that Shimon is paying attention — which he definitely is, considering he raises his nose to look up at Ambroise at the sound of the Krawk’s suddenly doubled volume — “I zhink _Sir Oliver_ vould appreciate having someone to share a cup of tea wizh every now and again, hmm?”

And Shimon’s smile is suddenly gone, replaced by something akin to embarrassment.

Ambroise is sure that the Gelert must be blushing beneath the tangled locks of his hair — which is what he’d wanted to cause, sort of — so he merely takes another long, exaggerated sip of his tea and waits for Shimon to think of a suitable response.

If one ever comes to him.

Which it seems will never happen at this rate.

Shimon’s eyes dart quickly between Ambroise’s snarky crimson sclera and the wall to his far right, him just trying to think of something to say, or to change the subject, or to pretend like his hunting partner _wasn’t_ just on his mind, but... well, he’s not sure if there really _is_ anything to say that could throw the scent off of his trail of guilt. Ambroise has always had a weird sixth sense when it comes to figuring out what’s on Shimon’s mind, after all, as well as has mastered the art of reading the Gelert’s always half-concealed expressions. It’s equal parts helpful and frustrating, honestly. Shimon isn’t quite sure which of those two categories this particular topic will eventually fall under come the conversation’s end, though.

As per usual, the hunter’s first reaction is to lift his glass to his lips and snicker lightly into his drink — an uncomfortable, toothy sort of chuckle. “And _why_ would that matter to me, hmm?” he asks before taking a long, slow sip of the warm alcohol he cradles in his palm, his words laced with the strongest sarcasm he can muster in this moment.

Ambroise doesn’t need to respond with words. He just gives his friend a very specific _look_ — a look that clearly reads, _Don’t play coy with me, Shimon._

Shimon rolls his eyes when he realises that Ambroise is only going to continue staring at him with that same goddamn expression — an expression which he, unfortunately, tends to receive a lot, and has learned to both love and hate. He knows what that look means, unfortunately — a little too well. It means that there’s no way out of this conversation. Still only half-frustrated, he sets his glass down on the table and pulls his hair just the slightest bit back from the left side of his face, slightly revealing his bright gold eye. “ _Sir Oliver_ ” — Shimon mocks Ambroise’s thick Darigan accent as he says his hunting partner’s name — “can drink all the garbage that he’d like,” he says, feigning — and rather successfully so — a petty annoyance with the very idea, batting his free hand in the air as he speaks. “I still want none of that frilly stuff. It smells like some swooning lover’s bouquet of overpriced flowers.”

Ambroise snickers. “Does it really?”

Shimon snorts. “ _Worse_.”

“ _Sir Oliver_ doesn’t seem to zhink so.”

Shimon snorts a second time. “I’ve seen _Sir Oliver_ take twenty minutes to prepare three bites of some pretentious excuse of a midnight snack, so I don’t really trust his opinions on food.”

Ambroise snickers again. “Maybe you should give his taste a try.”

The innuendo goes completely over Shimon’s head. “Nope.”

But Ambroise insists. “Are you sure?”

Still, nothing. “Yep.”

“Really.”

Shimon rolls his eyes again. “I don’t know _what_ exactly you’re trying to prove, here, Bee.”

Except he does.

And they both know that he does.

The thing is, Oliver really _has_ been on Shimon’s mind a lot recently. _A lot_. It would be hard for him to not be, considering all of the things that the two of them have gone through together since they first met — which, surprisingly, was actually not too long ago. The handsome Christmas Gelert no doubt saved Shimon’s life that first night he had miraculously stumbled across his half-dead body in the middle of an equally-dead nowhere. He’s probably saved his life a half dozen times _since_ then, too — or, at least, saved him from more probably-completely-avoidable scars and injuries. What started out as nothing but a simple partnership due to their similar lines of work and easily meshing personalities has been quickly and drastically shifting into something that most people would call something along the lines of “budding affection,” but what Shimon has been insisting is “none of that soppy bullshit.” Again, though, Ambroise knows him better than that, and he knows what the look in the pale Gelert’s eyes means. He knows, because he’s never seen it before.

Seeing just how flustered the simple shift in topic has made his friend reassures Ambroise that what he’s been thinking is true... and gives him the confidence to keep being a jackass about the whole thing. “How about zhis,” he begins to propose in a mocking tone, setting his cup down on its saucer again and leaning back in his seat, crossing his arms and legs, “I vill give you zhe chance to admit to it first, but if you do _not_ , _I_ vill say vhat it is zhat is on your mind, da?”

Shimon didn’t realise that he had turned his head to stare completely at the wall to his right until he’s forced by Ambroise’s words — and subsequent silence — to look back. He’s frustrated when he sees just how _confident_ the Krawk looks. There’s no sense of doubt in his bright red eyes. There’s no escaping this topic. Probably.

But Shimon doesn’t give in that easily. “Admit to _what_ , Bee?” he asks, deciding to still play coy.

Ambroise gives him _that look_ again.

But Shimon doesn’t buy it. “I’m waiting.”

“So am I — and I asked first.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Again, all he gets in response is a further exaggerated version of _that look_.

Silence.

Shimon looks away.

So Ambroise decides to just say it: “You are falling for him, aren’t you?” he asks in a lowered tone.

And Shimon whips his head back around with an expression of pure mortification. “ _What?!_ ” he half-shouts, honestly sounding somewhat sarcastic, though it isn’t at all his intent. “What the hell makes you think _that?_ _And_ ” — he points one accusatory finger at the Krawk’s nose — “ _don’t_ just give me that damned _look_ again; I want a real answer this time.”

Ambroise laughs loudly at Shimon’s incredibly volatile — and incredibly guilty-seeming — reaction to the simple question, desperately trying to cover his fangy smile with one hand. “I am _positive_ zhat you know vhy, Mister Stoneark” he continues to tease, “considering zhat _you_ are zhe one feeling it.”

Shimon narrows his eyes — debates for half a second whether or not he should keep rolling with the charade, then decides to keep playing coy. “Feeling _what_ exactly?” Pause. “And _don’t_ give me that look.”

“The feeling of _falling_ , of course,” Ambroise continues, his voice lilting more and more with each and every sentence said.

Shimon further narrows his eyes. “Hardly,” he says — almost hisses, though it’s far from a threat given the context. He then snorts frustratedly, lowering his nose both to make his glare more accusatory and to make his hair fall back into place over both of his eyes. “I don’t _fall_ for people,” he adds, putting a gross, mocking emphasis on the word, his tone that of a childish, under-the-breath sort of mumbling.

This time, Ambroise’s laugh is so sarcastically curt, it sounds almost more like words. “Oh, _come_ now, Mister Stoneark,” the Darigan Krawk begins again, uncrossing his legs to lean forward more, “you can’t deny it. I _know_ you can’t. _You_ know you can’t.”

Shimon holds his tongue, surprisingly.

And Ambroise just can’t stop snickering. His voice somehow gets even _more_ singsong. “Shall I list zhe vays I know to you?”

“No.”

He begins to count off the reasons on his fingers. “You talk about zhis man _incessantly,_ first of all...”

Shimon quickly reaches over and bats Ambroise’s hands out of the air, making the Krawk laugh harder. “Stop.”

Ambroise lifts his hands to begin listing again. “You alvays—”

He just gets his hands smacked again.

Still snickering, Ambroise takes his casual sitting position again — arms and ankles crossed, leaning back and looking down his nose — and gives a painfully knowing smile. “Now listen,” he begins again, his tone suddenly deepened to one of a genuine care. Almost, at least. “I don’t know much about _romance_ , but—”

“This has _nothing_ to do with romance.” The interjection is threatening.

But Ambroise ignores him. He’s probably the only person who safely could. “—it is _very_ clear zhat zhis is more zhan just a casual business partnership,” he continues. Shimon’s expression is only continuing to darken, but Ambroise is a professional at ignoring such glowering. From Shimon, at least. “Every time you speak to him, or about him, it is as if your entire aura changes.” Pause. His giggling is finally subsiding. His tone is turning a touch more genuine. Then, “He really makes you happy, doesn’t he?” Ambroise asks in a calm, caring tone.

But Shimon just looks away.

Something in the room’s atmosphere has definitely changed now, though Ambroise actually isn’t sure if it’s for good or not just yet. This sort of topic has never been brought up before, after all. How could it have been? He’s never had the guts to bring it up in regards to... himself. It’s just... easier, he supposes, when it’s in the context of a third party. He’s not sure if he resents that or not.

Well... no, no, he definitely does...

But this isn’t about him.

This is about Shimon.

It’s _always_ been about Shimon.

And, right now, Shimon doesn’t have his perpetually sarcastic smile on his face, nor any snarky comments sitting eager on his tongue. He’s pulled his hair out of his face just the slightest bit to examine the whatevers that rest against to wall to his right and is now sitting with his hands folded loosely in his lap and his toes tapping nervously against the hardwood floors. He’s somewhere else entirely in this moment — somewhere deep within his thoughts. Somewhere far away from here. Probably somewhere with Oliver...

Ambroise decides to try to lighten the mood since, for once in his life, he actually can’t tell what Shimon’s expression means right now... and it’s worrying him. He begins to tick things off on his fingers again. “He saved your life,” he begins, suddenly singsong once more, and Shimon finally starts to turn to look back — thankfully. “You are alvays travelling togezher, he is your hunting partner, he is your best friend—”

“ _You_ are my best friend, Ambroise.”

Well, that was unexpected.

It’s said almost like a threat.

Ambroise actually snaps his jaws shut as he looks up at Shimon, startled by the sound of the interjection. For a split second, he wonders if Shimon only said that to try to get him to shut up, but when he meets the Gelert’s golden gaze, he finds that he actually looks... offended — or perhaps simply hurt — that Ambroise would think such a thing.

Ambroise is flattered, honestly — maybe even hopeful — but...

He decides to ignore Shimon’s glare — and his own fluttering heart — and instead continues. “Well, he is still your partner, and—”

“We are _not_ partners.”

At least this time the interjection doesn’t cause any collateral damage to Ambroise’s state of mind. The Krawk rolls his eyes. “I meant _hunting_ partners, pridurok.” Pause. His grin then turns mischievous. “ _Alzhough_ —”

“I do _not_ want to hear whatever you are about to say,” Shimon interrupts, lifting a hand in a sassy gesture for silence, “and I am _not_ a moron.”

Ambroise just continues ticking things off on his fingers. “He is your friend, and your partner, and” — his next words are a saccharine coo — “your _malen'kiy plamya_...”

Shimon groans loudly. “Oh _gods_ ,” he whines, throwing his head back exaggeratedly — childishly — and dragging one hand down his face, “you heard me say that?”

Ambroise snickers again. “Mmm-hm.”

Shimon rolls his eyes once more at his friend’s drawled-out hum, frustrated that the genuinely endearing petname he had accidentally let slip while saying his temporary goodbyes to Oliver this afternoon was overheard. How embarrassing. “Well...” The Gelert scrambles to find some sort of excuse “I...” He scoffs. “Well, I give _everyone_ nicknames, pchelka,” he finally attempts to remedy.

His attempt is hardly successful. Ambroise, too, scoffs in response. “Don’t _pchelka_ me,” he scolds.

Finally, Shimon’s smile starts to come back. “What, are you not _pchelka moya?_ ” he teases.

Ambroise feels his stomach flip, but, “ _Zatknis_ ,” he says sternly — though still playfully.

Well, at least _Shimon_ is laughing again.

And that _is_ what’s most important... right?

The thing is, Shimon knows that Ambroise is right. He doesn’t know what exactly it is that’s causing it, but there’s just _something_ about Oliver that makes him feel... happy. Calm. Sane. Or... something along those cliché lines. Not like he doesn’t feel those things when in the comfort of his home here, or when chatting with friends down at the tavern, or especially in this very moment while having drinks and a fun conversation with his best friend, but... well, there’s still something different. Something he can’t place. Something he’s almost _afraid_ to place. After all, this whole topic — the topic of romance, of dedication, and of love of all kinds — is something that he’s tried so damn hard to avoid for so, so many years of his life; but... Oliver is somehow getting through all of that. Somehow. Maybe it’s his charm, or the way that he speaks, or the way that he so very obviously doesn’t mind talk of romance and the beauty of a swoon _himself_ , but... Well, either way, he’s slowly breaking down the walls of Shimon’s stoic, loveless front, and Shimon wishes that it weren’t true, and he wishes that he could stop it, but... something about Oliver...

Ambroise leans forward to rest his elbows on the tabletop, then holds his cheeks in his hands, simply watching Shimon and trying to read his still-somewhat-foreign body language — his nervously tapping fingertips, his bittersweet half-smile, his gently curling tail, his focused eyes remaining on the same empty spot on the floor...

It’s pure adoration.

It’s deep, blissful thoughts.

It’s something that Ambroise will never know.

For a minute or so, the two of them both sit in this pensive sort of silence and disappear into their own minds, each thinking of another person entirely, though still not at all the same. Ambroise takes in his friend’s every distinct, handsome feature while Shimon contemplates all of Oliver’s. Neither of them are sure what this means. Or, well, at least, they don’t want to admit to it.

Well... maybe Ambroise does. He always has. He probably always will. But...

Oliver is just... better, he supposes.

Shimon’s never seemed so happy.

And that’s what’s most important, right?

The Darigan Krawk finally lets out a soft sigh, then begins to toy with his cup of now-half-cold tea. When he finally finds the strength to look back up to see if Shimon’s expression has at all changed, he finds that it hasn’t. He’s still thinking about it. He’s still thinking about _him_. He’s only getting farther away from this moment. Soon, he’ll probably be completely gone.

But at least he’s happy, right?

“Shimon?”

The hunter actually jumps a bit in surprise when he hears the sound of his name spoken in his friend’s light tenor. Ambroise isn’t known for speaking to _anyone_ in anything less than absolute formalities, after all, no matter how long he’s known them — and god knows he’s known Shimon for what seems like centuries. It’s a foreign sound, to say the least, and it forces the smile to leave Shimon’s face, and when he looks over and sees the serious look that Ambroise is giving him from across the small coffee table, he finds himself biting his lip to keep from saying anything stupid. “Hm?”

Ambroise gives a gentle half-smile. “You know zhat I am very serious about zhis, da?” he asks, his tone dark, but lovingly so.

Shimon forces himself to not roll his eyes out of frustration again, but he does exhale in a bit of a huff.

And Ambroise just continues on, his eyes staying determinedly on his friend’s, despite his longing to look anywhere else — to _see_ anything else. “I do not vant to push you into anyzhing, but... I zhink you might vant to consider your relationship wizh Sir Oliver from zhis new sort of view, da?”

Shimon looks down into his now-laced-fingered hands, then back up to meet Ambroise’s eyes. It’s clear that he’s nervous. It’s clear that he’s scared. It’s clear... that Ambroise’s words are finally sinking in.

Ambroise sighs softly once more; then, “He... really makes you happy, doesn’t he?” he echoes himself.

Silence.

Shimon looks further away.

But Ambroise is patient.

The gentle crackling of the fire that still burns across the room from them is the only sound that can be heard in this moment — as if all breathing and heartbeats have stilled. This question is important. It could change lives. It could... also ruin them.

Finally, the cream-coloured Gelert looks back towards the table, but refuses to lift his eyes. “He, um...” Pause. He takes a deep breath. He exhales long. Then, “He... makes me happier than I’ve felt in a long, long while...” he finally admits.

Ambroise gives a gentle smile, but a loud part of him is also aching.

Once again, there is silence.

Then, “It is okay for you to be wizh him, you know,” Ambroise says, half-whispered. “You have nozhing to be afraid of. Zhis could be zhe start of somezhing beautiful.”

Shimon doesn’t respond.

The air between them has settled into some sort of shaky understanding now, though it’s one that also tastes insincere. Neither of them know if this conversation will lead to anything being born. Neither of them know if it’ll _prevent_ anything from conceiving. All that either of them know — and it _is_ the most important part of it all, right? — is that... Shimon’s thinking about it. Kind of. Somewhat. Maybe.

No, no... definitely.

The next sound that can be heard is that of Ambroise pouring another cup of tea, then heating it with a quick flash of his strong static magic. This time, however, he slides the cup and the saucer it sits upon in Shimon’s direction, the motion slow and exaggerated so that the porcelain makes a loud hissing sound against the old coffee table. “Zhis tea is zhe one zhat Sir Oliver says he likes best,” the Krawk then says, his expression and cadence finally returning to their gentle, caring, but still sarcastic defaults.

Shimon looks over to Ambroise, then down at the cup, then back up to Ambroise, then finally gives a smile.

It’s been countless years of adamant refusal, but finally — _finally_ — the stubborn Gelert gives in and takes the small cup into one clumsy fist. “ _Fine_ ,” he says frustratedly, “I’ll drink your fucking dirt water.”

Ambroise gives a light laugh and a genuine smile when Shimon forces a sneeze at the smell of the fragrant tea, then watches as the Gelert takes his first nervous sip. Still, he can’t help but feel wounded that the only reason Shimon is finally doing this is for the sake of someone else.


End file.
